His Name His Fortune

By Max Brand

His Name His Fortune by Max Brand is about the birth and childhood of a young Frenchman by the name Delapin who names his wriggling new baby boy Pierre. Pierre grows to be a fierce fighter in battle. Excerpt: "It was all the result, in the first place, of a name. The name originated in a little family conversation some twenty years before. "But what," said the doctor, "are you going to call the boy?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: DigiCat
• Release date: Sep 15, 2022
• ISBN: 8596547310044

Max Brand

Max Brand® (1892–1944) is the best-known pen name of widely acclaimed author Frederick Faust, creator of Destry, Dr. Kildare, and other beloved fictional characters. Orphaned at an early age, he studied at the University of California, Berkeley. He became one of the most prolific writers of our time but abandoned writing at age fifty-one to become a war correspondent in World War II, where he was killed while serving in Italy.

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Max Brand

His Name His Fortune

EAN 8596547310044

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [e-mail]

Table of Contents

I. — THE NAME WAS FRENCH

II. — GIVING THE LIE

III. — A HEAVY BLOW FALLS

IV. — PIERRE FACES A BLUNT TRUTH

V. — NOT TOM OR JACK OR BILL

VI. — ROSE PURCHASS

VII. — THE WRATH OF A PROUD FATHER

VIII. — A TURN IN THE ROAD

IX. — PURCHASS GOES FOR HELP

X. — CRAVEN AND STRONG

XI. — BLACKMAIL

THE END

"

I. — THE NAME WAS FRENCH

Table of Contents

It was all the result, in the first place, of a name. The name originated in a little family conversation some twenty years before.

But what, said the doctor, are you going to call the boy?

I dunno, said the father. I dunno that we've made up our minds about nothing just yet.

I've never heard anything like that, said the doctor. A couple not having at least a dozen names picked for their first baby. You'd better decide right away. It's bad luck to let a child wait a long time without a name.

You don't mean it, breathed the father. Well, I'll be talking to Martha, and maybe we can pick something out. We'll sure try. But d'you think it ain't going to do no harm for me to talk to her now?

Why, man, she's half crying for you. Go in and see her now, don't talk about her. Come, now, you do what I say, he directed, or I'll double my fee. You go into that room and pick up that little baby—

Doc, you don't mean for me to go right in and pick it up in these here hands of mine?

I mean just that.

But—I mean—suppose—suppose it was to—to slip, Doc—?

You talk like an idiot, said the doctor. Get in there, and do what I tell you to do.

Would you mind coming along in with me? pleaded the father.

The doctor grinned again. And the first thing you're going to say—do you know what it is to be?

Ain't got the least idea, Doc.

You're going to say—Martha, he's the image of you!

Him? I never seen a baby yet, said the father, that looked like anybody special.

Of course, you haven't, said the doctor, but I tell you that you are going to say—Martha, he's the image of you. And she'll answer—Oh, you silly boy, he's a perfect picture of you.

And what do I say next? said the father, clearing his throat and staring with great eyes.

You suggest a name for it.

I dunno nothing about the sort of names folks use for babies.

They're about the same as the names people use for grown-ups. Call him Bob—Bill—anything you please.

I ain't gonna call any child o' mine Bob or Bill!

Let's see, said the doctor, Delapin is your name, and that's a French name, I suppose.

French! cried the father. I'll have you savvy that I'm American clean from the hair on my head to the soles of my feet. French! Wha'd'ya mean by that?

The doctor rubbed his nose and grinned again.

I'll tell you what, he said, some of the greatest men that ever lived here have been Frenchmen.

They're dead now, said the father, and let 'em stay dead. I'm an American. That's all. French? You talk plumb ridiculous, Doc!

Why, of course, said the doctor. Anyone can see at a glance that you are American. And here he eyed the broad, square chin of the father and his terrible, pale-blue eyes. Anyone can see that. But if you want a front name to go along smoothly with your last name of Delapin, I say that you'll have to have a French name.

Well, said the father, lemme hear what you mean by that? And he clenched his big fists.

You might call him, for instance, Pierre. Pierre Delapin. That's a good name, my friend.

And the father rolled it over his tongue, first cautiously, as though it were a stinging acid, and then with a great abandon. And finally he smiled.

Pierre Delapin! Doc, you've sure got a great head on your shoulders. I never could've thought of a name like that for him.

Go in quick, now, urged the doctor. You go right ahead in and do what I tell you to. Don't forget a thing.

Delapin stole cautiously into the room. And the doctor, listening, heard a weak, happy voice greet the big miner. The doctor stepped nearer and listened still harder.

Oh, Sam, cried the girl, I was afraid that you wouldn't want even to see him! Ain't he lovely?

The shaken voice of Sam Delapin answered with a mighty effort: Sure he's lovely. He's a dead ringer for you, Martha. He's sure the image of you.

A faint, sweet laughter answered him, and then the joyous voice: Oh, you silly boy, he's a perfect picture of you!

And a minute later the name of Pierre had been selected for the child and voted the finest name that was ever discovered by the brilliant mind of man. Therefore the doctor was really responsible for about half of what followed.

There is no denying the influence of a name. There was no reason why Pierre, when his father's hair was red and his mother's was black, should have had brown hair himself. And when his mother's eyes were a pale battle-gray, there was no reason why the eyes of Pierre should have been a rich, deep-sea blue. Such, however, were the eyes of Pierre Delapin. He had the middle height of his father, but he lacked the leviathan limbs and the massive muscles and the huge bones of the elder Delapin. Compared with the father, the son was the lightly, toughly made Arab compared with the lumbering Shire horse. He looked, in short, as if he might be bent, but never broken.

When he was four, diphtheria killed his mother and father. After that, he was raised haphazard until he was thirteen—nearly fourteen—years old. At that period he